Not Sentiment
by ThePandoricaWillOpen
Summary: It wasn't unusual for John to get a phone call from Angelo in the middle of the night. What was unusual was to hear a drunken Sherlock in the background, smashing plates and cursing loudly. Unrequited!JohnLock. One-Shot. Unbeta'd. (Complete)


**Title: **Not Sentiment (one shot)

**Rating:** K

**Notes: **Not beta'd, if you see a mistake leave me a review and I'll fix it immediately. Unrequited!JohnLock.

* * *

It wasn't unusual for John to get a phone call from Angelo in the middle of the night. Sometimes he would have information on a case and couldn't ring up Sherlock or the detective has raced out of the restaurant and left something behind in his mad dash to get the bad guy. John would generally just pass on the message to Sherlock later or ask for the possession to be kept safe. Sherlock might not be tidy (apart from his clothes, _those_ he color coded) but he was a creature of habit. If even one thing was out of place in whatever odd spot he'd left it in, he would get twitchy-eyed. John would rather avoid a yelling, jumping on furniture, throwing a tantrum Sherlock at any cost.

What _was_ unusual was hearing a drunken Sherlock in the background singing at the top of his lungs and a request from the restaurant owner to pick him up before he destroyed the place. John, dumbfounded, could only blink, his mouth open in shock. Angelo yelled at Sherlock to put down the mirror before he got hurt and the crash that followed, along with a giggle and an "Oops!" snapped John out his shock enough to mutter that he would be there in ten minutes.

A sober Sherlock was bad enough but a _drunken_ Sherlock... well, John couldn't even imagine it! He rushed to Angelo's, not wanting to miss any of the excitement and perhaps owe even more money to the poor restaurant owner who always let them eat for free. When he arrived, he was barely inside when a plate smashed against the wall to his left. Startled, John moved away from the mess and towards the assailant, a very drunk Sherlock holding a plate over his head whilst Angelo and Billy, the server, tried to get him to stop. Once Sherlock saw John, he dropped the plate (much to Angelo's displeasure) and ran to him, wrapping his long arms around John and pressing his face to his chest and very expensive suit.

"John! My blogger has found me!" Sherlock whispered into John's hair. He tried to push him away to no avail. Sherlock took a big whiff of his hair before dislodging himself and slurring, "Hungry? Angelo made angelic sauce."

"Angelic sauce?" John asked looking towards the restaurant owner who shrugged. He looked back at Sherlock who's staring intently at his face, brows scrunched up as if trying to decipher him and failing. He looked just about ready to tear him apart, dissect him and study him from the inside out. John grabbed him by the shoulders - hopefully snapping him out of his thoughts - and asked, "Ready to go?"

Sherlock nodded like a schoolboy getting scolded, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Yes, Johnny-John-John."

John pursed his lips for a second. "What?"

"N-nothing," Sherlock replied, head slumping forward and landing on John's shoulder. Although taller than he, Sherlock's head fit quite nicely between John's neck and shoulder. He felt Sherlock's breath hit his skin as he whispered, "I want to go home, John."

* * *

Sherlock stumbled through the doors, giggling loudly. John tried to shush him; Mrs. Hudson was asleep. He helped Sherlock up the stairs, wrapping an arm around his thin waist and the other holding Sherlock's long arm, which, at one point, tried to choke him out as he stumbled, pulling John with him. That hand moved, a moment later, to cover Sherlock's mouth where a string of giggles were currently erupting. John tried to suppress the laughter that was brewing in his chest, trying his damnest to be the sober one. Hell, he _was_ the sober one and this, almost falling, was _not_ funny. Except that it was to Sherlock and when he got into a mood, John always seemed to contract it the longer they were together.

They continued on, John pushing Sherlock up the stairs covering his giggling mouth with his hand and grinding his teeth as to not join him in a giggle party. One step away from their landing, Sherlock tripped, sending not only himself but also John to the floor, another fit of giggles resonated throughout the dark house. John managed to push himself off the floor but Sherlock seemed determined to remain, laughing his arse off, eyes screwed shut. The doctor watched the detective with a smile. He had never seen such a genuine, real emotion coming from him before. He had almost thought Sherlock wasn't human but this was proof, the man was flesh and blood just like everyone else.

John counts to five before taking Sherlock forcibly by the hands, very soft hands although he wasn't thinking about that at all. Nope. Once inside their flat, John is pushed against the wall, Sherlock seemingly becoming sober the moment they passed the threshold. It is an odd change in behavior, one moment he's stumbling and nearly crashing into the doorframe and then standing straight as an arrow, his face no longer smiling and giggling like a drunken teenager.

"Lay with me, Watson," he demanded, face completely serious, hand firmly on John's chest. "I want you."

John tried to push him away, not amused, but all he gets is a close-up of Sherlock's face and arms surrounding his head. "You're drunk," John pointed out, looking away from the detective's bright eyes. "At least you _were_ drunk a moment ago."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, nodding his head rapidly. John let out a shaky breath as Sherlock's face neared him and whispered, "I am highly intoxicated. I can feel..._ feels_, John." He stopped, contemplating something. "Yes. I want you, I feel it, John."

"You're not – " John tried to push Sherlock away " - in full control of yourself. Let me go and I'll forget this ever happened."

"I love you, John!" Sherlock exclaimed a moment later, taking a deep breath and repeating it like a mantra, "I love you, John Watson. I love you, John Watson. I love-"

"I – I," John was dumbfounded for the second time tonight. He blinked at Sherlock and saw the seriousness his eyes held. He wasn't lying; his usually cold eyes were a soft grey – like melting metal – and not a dark, nearly black, color. He extended his arms, finally able to push him away and said, "Sherlock, I don't - "

"Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, trembling limbs, dark blush on your cheekbones, doctor," Sherlock pointed out, fingers reaching out to touch said cheekbones gently. John met his eyes as he added silently, "Yes, you do."

John, with all the force he could muster, pushed Sherlock completely away. He leaned back on the wall, his hands rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to reach out as Sherlock stumbled slightly. When the detective steadied himself, John said, "I don't love you, Sherlock."

The melting metal in his eyes cooled instantly and the soft grey eyes were once more a dark cold stare that brought shivers down John's spine. Sherlock turned away from John a moment later, his spine straight, suddenly very sober. He nodded once, still facing away from John, and said, "Good night, doctor." He turned and went into his bedroom, leaving John to stare at his retreating form and then the dark door as it closed.

* * *

John woke up to silence. In a home that housed the infamously bored Sherlock Holmes, silence was never good. He got up, putting on his robe and shoes. Down the stairs he went, carefully and quietly just in case Sherlock was asleep, rare but then again when did Sherlock start getting drunk and cloud his usually sharp mind? If John didn't know better, he would say Sherlock hadn't been really drunk and it had all been a show but not even he was a good enough actor to pull that off. At least he hoped not and what happened last night was discarded as a drunken mistake instead of whatever it truly was.

Sherlock was on his couch, hands clasped under his chin, eyes closed in concentration when John finally entered the front room. He hadn't expected Sherlock to be outside his room and yet here he was, almost like a dead body, on the couch wearing his dark blue robe and pajamas.

"You look better," he commented, heading to the kitchen hoping not to find a dead body or pieces of one on the counters. He didn't and he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. Sherlock hadn't moved or replied from his position on the couch. Worried he had chocked on his own vomit from his late night being, John called out, "Sherlock."

"Hmm," the detective murmured, his eyes still closed. A damn murderer could be in the flat and Sherlock wouldn't move from his spot unless he was an interesting one or about to spoil his science experiments.

"I said you look better." John filled up the kettle and placed in on the stove. He turned back to Sherlock, leaning against the counters with hands crossed over his chest. "How long have you been up?"

"Never went to sleep," the detective replied nonchalantly. "Didn't need to sleep."

"You were drunk last night," John pointed out in horror. "Weren't you?"

"Hmm," Sherlock replied. "If you say so."

"If I sa – " John stuttered. "You were drunk last night and now you're not."

"Your deductive skills still need work, doctor." Sherlock got up and left the room without another word, leaving John alone with the kettle screaming behind him, stunned and horrified within an inch of his life.

"Oh, god," he groaned. "What a mess."

* * *

"About what happened yesterday," John started later that day. "I want you to know I didn't really – well, I did – but I, I mean, I didn't know you were not, well, drunk. And, um, it might not have been the best way to- Are you listening to me or am I talking to a brick wall?"

"Hmm," Sherlock replied noncommittally.

"Are we going to talk about it? It was a big-"

"John, I do not have time for this," Sherlock interrupted, looking up from the papers on the table. He stared at John coldly, eyes dark and murderous. John felt the need to back away slowly as he could before the detective killed him for interrupting his concentration. "A mans life is at stake. Let me think."

"Sherlock - "

"Why would a fourteen year old street kid admit to having killed a business man when it was really the man's daughter? They were having relations but killing a man because she smiled at him once or twice … makes no sense."

John shook his head, there was no getting through to Sherlock, and he walked away and muttered over his shoulder, "Sentiment, that's why."

As he reached the door, he heard Sherlock exclaim to himself, "Ahh! Not sentiment, John." Then a moment later, "Love. I should know."


End file.
